


A Knock at the Door

by luulapants



Series: Flowers in the Window [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Knotting, Anal Sex, Bickering, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Casual Sex, Emotional Constipation, Fluff and Smut, Fuckbuddies, Knotting, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Peter Hale, Prequel, Rimming, Top Peter Hale, bossy bottom tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luulapants/pseuds/luulapants
Summary: Prequel to Flowers in the Window. Peter's POV the first time he accidentally knots Stiles.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Flowers in the Window [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876990
Comments: 58
Kudos: 625





	A Knock at the Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maduk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maduk/gifts).



> Thanks to Maduk for the AMAZING request for this prequel!!

The lines of numbers on Peter’s computer screen were starting to run together. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. Beside him, his phone buzzed once, a notification popping up on the screen.

_From Stiles: Hey_

Peter ignored it and turned back to his computer, but not two seconds later, his phone buzzed again.

_From Stiles: Are you still working?_

Again, he ignored it. Again, the phone buzzed.

_From Stiles: I’m horny_

Peter lifted an eyebrow, interest finally piqued enough to pick up the phone and type back,

_To Stiles: Sounds like a personal problem._

Because desperation was Stiles’s game. He could play at the horny young man, desperate for cock whenever he could get it. Peter had an image to maintain, a level of detachment necessary to maintain the casual nature of their arrangement.

_From Stiles: You’re still at work aren’t you  
From Stiles: That’s so fucking lame omg  
From Stiles: Have you eaten yet_

Peter didn’t really get Stiles’s aversion to simple niceties like question marks, but he felt sure that if he commented on it, the brat would only double down on the tendency. Rolling his eyes, he sent,

_To Stiles: I’m working at home and I had a late lunch._

Glancing at the time on his phone, Peter cringed, because it was already past seven. He’d gotten sucked into a project and had hardly picked his head up since he sat down to work on it that afternoon. No wonder his eyes hurt.

He turned back to his work, but kept glancing at his phone. Stiles hadn’t responded back, and Peter worried that maybe he’d been _too_ dismissive. His finger hovered over the screen, ready to unlock it and type out another text, but he refrained, pulled his hand back.

If Stiles had lost interest for the evening, so be it. Peter wasn’t about to go chasing after him like some love-sick moron.

So he turned back to his work, shoulders hunched and squinting against the glare of the screen. The sun had gone down, and he probably should have gotten up to turn on the light. Instead, he just sat in the dark and ran another set of variables through his financial models.

A knock sounded at the door.

Peter glanced down to see that it was past seven-thirty. He sniffed as he got up from his chair, but wasn’t able to discern the identity of his visitor past the pungent aroma of garlic, marinara, sausage, and oregano. He turned on the lamp next to the front door before opening it. Stiles stood in the hallway, bouncing restlessly on his heels with a brown paper bag in his hands.

“Were you sitting in here in the dark?” he asked, breezing past Peter into the apartment. “God, that’s so creepy. You should have been a vampire, not a werewolf.” He kicked his shoes off.

“Vampires have been extinct for two hundred years,” Peter said flatly, closing the door with a frown. “How did you get past the front desk?”

“Bribed Henry,” Stiles answered, flippant. He dropped the bag onto the dining table.

“ _What_?”

“Kidding!” Laughing, Stiles opened the bag and started taking out little plastic to-go boxes and foil packages of what smelled like garlic bread. “I told him I was surprising you with food and that you were working and he shouldn’t bother you.”

“That’s hardly better.”

“I told him you hadn’t eaten since lunch,” Stiles informed him, tone going facetiously grave. “Henry is _very concerned_ about your health, Peter.”

Still standing at the front door, a little bewildered, Peter glanced around his dark apartment, lit by a single lamp until Stiles flipped the switch for the light fixture above the table. He squinted at the sudden brightness. “Touching, I’m sure,” he murmured. He stepped over to the table and saw what appeared to be chicken parmesan in one container, lasagna in another. “Is this from Agapito’s?”

“Yeah, it’s snobby and expensive, so I figured you’d like it,” Stiles agreed.

Peter scowled, because he _did_ like it and it _was_ expensive. “The greenhouse pays this well?” he said instead of dignifying the accusation with a response.

Stiles dropped into one of the dining chairs. “I’m gonna steal your phone and Venmo myself back later.”

The laugh escaped Peter before he could bite it back, so he let it go. He sat. It was, after all, very good snobby Italian food.

* * *

Once the garlic bread had vanished in leftover pools of marinara, Stiles leaned forward on an elbow, chin propped on his hand, and said, “So… now that I’m sure you won’t collapse in a fit of low blood sugar...” He waggled his eyebrows in a way that was absolutely not cute.

Peter felt his lips curling into a smile, but forced it back. He folded his arms over his chest. “You really think you have me at your beck and call like that, hmm?”

“Oh, no rush,” Stiles insisted, not looking the slightest bit put off. He looked so damn comfortable here, like he was coming home, not just stopping by for a booty call. “I could just go get naked and wait in your bed until you’re done…” He squinted and hummed. “Adding? Multiplying? Asking Excel to add and multiply for you? Is there division involved? I always forget how to divide in Excel.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m working on some very interesting financial projection models,” Peter retorted.

Stiles repeated the words back in a high-pitched, mocking voice.

Peter scooted back from the table suddenly, poised to chase. Stiles grinned, mirroring his posture. “I’ll give you five seconds,” Peter growled. “One…”

Stiles bolted from his chair, stripping his shirt off over his head as he made a run for the hallway.

He didn’t even bother counting the rest, just waited until Stiles was through the door to the bedroom before chasing after him. He caught him at the foot of the bed, not a foot from where he’d been when Peter got up, and wrapped his arms around Stiles’s middle to lift him off his feet.

“Agh! That so wasn’t five seconds!” he squawked, kicking his legs and trying to squirm with his arms pinned to his sides.

“Was so,” Peter lied. He licked the side of Stiles’s neck up to his ear, then growled, “Wouldn’t matter anyway, sweetheart. You can’t outrun me.”

Stiles turned his head to nip at Peter’s lips. “Wouldn’t matter if I could,” he shot back. “I wanted you to catch me.”

Peter lowered him to bend him over the end of the bed, pressing a hand into the center of his bare back to keep him in place. “Undo your pants,” he instructed.

He was bent over Stiles, could easily have reached down to do it himself, but he liked watching Stiles scramble to follow directions when he deigned to. Most of the time, Stiles was obstinate against orders, more apt to boss Peter around than to put up with it the other way around. Every once in a while, he got in the mood to listen, and Peter knew enough to take advantage while it lasted.

“Lower them for me,” he continued, letting a tint of affectionate praise color his tone. “There you go, sweetheart, underwear too.” Stiles’s heart rate, which had been racing since his sprint down the hallway, stuttered in his chest as Peter reached down to brush his fingers over his dry hole. He dropped the tone long enough to ask, “You good?”

Stiles nodded quickly, getting his feet under himself to hit his hips up higher. “Please,” he urged.

Peter dropped to his knees and grasped Stiles’s ass with both hands. He dove straight in, dragging his tongue from Stiles’s balls, over his taint, up to his hole. A low groan was his reward. He didn’t rush, teasing around the rim with the tip of his tongue, only barely dipping inside before pulling back to lick over his hole in long, firm motions.

A hand found the back of his head, trying to push him in deeper, but Peter swatted it away easily. “Peter,” Stiles whined. Apparently his show at obedience was to be short-lived tonight. “Come on, I wanna get fucked sometime before you go gray.”

“Rudeness won’t get you what you want,” Peter chastised, but pressed his tongue in deeper anyway.

Stiles moaned into the blankets. “Of _course_ it will,” he said.

And, well, Peter couldn’t really argue with that.

He worked Stiles’s hole with his tongue, got it slick enough that he could work a finger inside, but then he had to pull away and get the lube from the nightstand. As soon as he stepped away, he saw Stiles crawling up the bed, flipping over onto his back. He’d been doing that more, lately: shifting so they fucked face-to-face.

“Did I say you could move?” Peter asked.

“Nope,” Stiles said, tucking his arms behind his head. “But, look at that, I did it anyway.”

“You’re a brat.”

Stiles gave him a judgmental once-over. “Why are you still wearing clothes?”

“Some of us have been busy doing all the work here, pillow princess.”

A loud laugh burst from Stiles, startlingly loud and hitting Peter with a surge of affection he hadn’t been prepared for. “Give me the lube,” Stiles told him. “I’ll show you a pillow princess.” He took the tube from Peter and slicked his fingers slowly. “Take your shirt off,” he instructed.

Humoring him, Peter tugged the shirt off and dropped it to the side. If he flexed his muscles a little for show, well, Stiles had no proof of that.

Stiles parted his legs and slipped his hand between them. Peter made a move toward the end of the bed, to watch, but Stiles made a quick, reprimanding, “Ah, ah!” His wrist curled between his legs, and his breath caught for a moment. “Stay right where you are,” he said, voice a little bit shakier. “Belt.”

Peter tugged his belt loose of the buckle, then slid it off slowly. “Should I hang onto this for you?” he asked, a bit of snark in his tone. “Since you’re in such a bossy mood?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Stiles said around a gasp of pleasure. He closed his eyes as he worked his fingers, hidden by the curve of his thigh. “Pants next.”

How Peter had ended up in this position, letting Stiles fucking Stilinski boss him around – and _liking it_ , god damn it – was beyond him. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, just two people stuck in Beacon Hills, vaguely dissatisfied with their lives but not enough to do anything about it. Then once became twice, and three times made a pattern, as Stiles would say.

Peter took off his pants. He wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking it loosely as he kicked them away. “Any other requests, your highness?”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, seeming thoroughly distracted by his own fingers. His other hand had started teasing his cock, fingers skating lightly over the length of it. “Come fuck my face.”

Well, that was one order Peter would never question. He straddled Stiles’s shoulders, tucking a pillow under his head. “The princess does have to be comfortable.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles laughed.

“Was that your next request?” Peter teased.

A hand grabbed Peter by the butt and hauled him closer as Stiles’s pretty pink lips parted to make way for his cock.

Peter cursed, reaching up to grip the headboard with both hands, and rocked forward into the tight, hot suction of Stiles’s mouth. God, he had gotten way too good at this in the few months they’d been sleeping together. It wasn’t like he’d been completely useless at it to start – apparently he’d learned _something_ at college – but, even so, he seemed to have utterly devoted himself to the study where Peter was involved.

One particularly wicked twist of Stiles’s tongue, and Peter felt his claws slipping, digging into the wood of the headboard. “Stiles,” he growled. “Not to rush things, but unless you plan to finish me off this way...”

Both of Stiles’s hands wrapped around Peter’s hips, shifting him back. “Alright, alright,” he said, voice rasped and chin slick with spit. “Impatient.”

Peter moved down the bed, between Stiles’s legs, then hiked them up over his shoulders. “I’ll show you impatient,” he grumbled.

Stiles kept his eyes fixed on Peter’s as he pushed in, mouth dropping open on a gasp. He reached over his head, gripping the pillow with both hands, arched his back. God, Peter wanted to accuse him of knowing exactly how good he looked like this, but he didn’t think that was true. He just bent himself into these tantalizing positions because that was what his body wanted to do. Instinctual.

“Fuck,” Stiles whimpered, his hips rolling restlessly. “Move, Peter. Please. Fuck, _please_ move.”

He begged like it was second nature, and Peter caved to his demands just as easily.

Peter kept a careful grip as he picked up a quick pace, one hand on Stiles’s thigh and the other around his hip. His claws kept slipping. It was a good angle, his thrusts punching short moans from Stiles’s throat more often than not. Peter couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken such time and care to learn another person’s body the way he had with Stiles, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, imagine wanting to stop.

“Peter,” Stiles groaned, his voice gone low and rough. He had squeezed his eyes shut. “Peter,” he said again, voice climbing higher. His eyes snapped open suddenly. “Peter?!”

Somewhere in the frantic urge of his thrusts, Peter had lost track of himself, and though Stiles’s tone had gone panicked, he couldn’t quite shake the haze of lust. “Mm?”

“What the _fuck_ is happening to your dick?”

His dick did feel different, more sensitive, and Stiles felt tighter, too. Peter tried to shift back, but startled to find that he couldn’t. “Fuck,” he muttered, realizing all at once what had happened.

How in the _hell_ had this happened?

“ _What the fuck is happening to your dick_!” Stiles shouted, and, okay, that really wasn’t the sort of thing he needed the neighbors overhearing.

Peter gathered his thoughts and verbal skills with some effort, his hips still shifting of their own accord. “It’s, fuck, it’s called a knot,” he said, and realized belatedly that his fangs had dropped. He pulled them back. “It doesn’t happen often.” It had _never_ happened to him, and his knowledge of the phenomenon consisted of an uncomfortable conversation with his father, more than two decades ago.

“What _is it_?” Stiles demanded.

“It’s just – it’s swelling. It’s a gland that swells.”

“I _know_. It’s _huge._ I’m more concerned with the _why_.”

“It’s supposed to keep us stuck together. Like, for… for _breeding_ , if you were a woman.”

“Oh my god, _please_ tell me you can’t get me magically pregnant,” Stiles panicked. “Peter. Peter, I can’t give birth to an ass baby. I can’t do it. I’ll die.”

Peter huffed a laugh, but it came out pained as he felt himself continuing to swell, continuing to rock into the tight clench of Stiles’s body. “I’m gonna come,” he mumbled.

“What! Peter, wait, you have to tell me what the fuck is – ”

“M’sorry, I didn’t know this would...” Peter mumbled, his eyes squeezing shut as he tried and failed to keep himself back from the sudden rush of orgasm. He fell forward, holding himself up over Stiles on trembling arms as he came and kept coming. God, he hadn’t thought it would last so long or feel so incredible.

When he finally got his wits back, he opened his eyes to find Stiles gaping up at him in disbelief.

“ _Dude_.”

Panting, Peter nodded. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t know. It should go down in fifteen minutes or so.” He didn’t actually remember how long, but it seemed like a safe bet.

“Why the hell did this happen?” Stiles urged.

Peter struggled for an answer. He knew the real answer, of course, but that wasn’t something he was ready to say to _himself_ , let alone his so-called casual fuckbuddy. He looked down at his clawed hand on the bed and said, “I lost control of the shift.”

Stiles looked dubious because, of course, he had lost control plenty of times during sex.

“And it’s close to the full moon,” Peter added quickly, bullshitting as though his life depended on it, “and there are certain complicated environmental factors, a lot of things have to add up all at the same time, and it’s really unusual that they all would, so I didn’t even think that it would happen.”

Stiles stared at him for a long moment, then glanced down between them, where his hips were splayed awkwardly around Peter’s. He’d gone soft in his panic. “Fifteen minutes, huh?”

“More or less,” Peter agreed. He lifted a hand, shifting it down toward Stiles’s cock. “Do you want me to…?”

“You know, somehow the blinding panic took me out of the mood,” Stiles replied. “Let’s just say you owe me a _really_ good blowjob later. When I’m less freaked out.”

Peter nodded and withdrew his hand. “Fair enough.”

Stiles sagged below him, sighing. “Fifteen minutes, huh?” he repeated.

“Tell me you’re not bored already.” Peter feigned annoyance, but, honestly, he was glad for the distraction and change of topic.

“I left my phone in the dining room,” Stiles whined.

“You’re completely ridiculous.”

“My hips hurt. My butt’s falling asleep. This is a weird position.”

“You were holding it fine before.”

“I was _enjoying myself_ before.”

Peter carefully shifted back and, holding Stiles’s hips firmly against his own, rolled them over so Stiles was on top. “Better?”

Stiles sat up, shifting in a way that sent little jolts of overstimulation through Peter’s cock. “Yeah. Still could use, like, a book or something. You should get a TV for your room.”

“I absolutely will not.”

“Hey, when did you put in the window boxes?” Stiles asked, turning toward the window and, again, curling Peter’s toes with the tugging against his knot.

Through gritted teeth, Peter said, “Last week – you didn’t see them?”

Stiles shrugged. “We fucked in the living room the last time I was over.”

Right, because that was all this was – casual fucking. Stiles came over, they fucked, he left. No relationship. No feelings. No commitment. No goddamn _knotting_.

“What kind of flowers are those?”

“Don’t you work with plants for a living now?”

“First of all,” Stiles said, holding up a finger. “Let’s not call it a living. They might as well pay me in kindly pats on the head. Second of all, I just pull the weeds and spray the hose. I’m not expected to _know things_.”

“They’re hyacinths.”

Stiles stared at them, nodding with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Has it been fifteen minutes yet?”

Peter groaned and pulled a pillow over his face.

* * *

  
  


“Are you sure you don’t want me to help clean up the food?” Stiles asked as Peter ushered him toward the door. “I know you’re, like, weirdly obsessive about the mess factor, so – ”

“It’s fine,” Peter insisted, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. He had been playing it cool for the twenty minutes it took for the knot to go down, then the excruciating thirty more that it took for Stiles to ‘ _recover from the indignity of being cock-fisted_ ’ and get dressed. Peter grabbed Stiles’s keys and phone off the dining table and shoved them into his hands. “Get home before you have to worry about waking the sheriff.”

“It’s only nine. He’s old, but he’s not _that old_.”

“Mhm, sounds good. I’m sure you’ll give me minute-by-minute updates on your anal recovery later, so if you don’t mind...” He pulled open the door and came just shy of shoving Stiles out of it.

“Right,” Stiles said. “See you later.”

The door shut.

Peter walked over to the table, stared at the mess, then walked away from it. He walked to the windows in the living room and, deliriously, thought that he should get some window boxes for out here, too.

He started laughing. Frantically, hysterically, the kind of laughter that didn’t feel very amusing at all but bent him double, clutching at the window as nervous, shaking snickers shook themselves loose from his chest.

He was fucked. He was _so fucked_.

**Author's Note:**

> I love, love, love to receive comments, so please let me know what you think! Also feel free to come visit me on [tumblr](https://luulapants.tumblr.com/)!


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